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Heats!  Memorial  Ubvwy 

Case  No Shc^J 

Drawer  No..—  !  :?i.  53 

OT  TO  BE  REMOVED  rSOM  U8R 
WITHOUT  PROPER  AUTHORITY." 

«nfe*WTCOtf. 


JIM  BLUDSO 


OF  THE  PRAIRIE  BELLE, 


AND 


LITTLE    BREECHES. 


BY  JOHN    HAY. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    R.   OSGOOD  &   CO. 


In 

CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

BY  JOHN   HAY. 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS. 


I  'LL   HOLD   HER   NOZZLE  AGIN   THE   BANK. 


JIM    BLUDSO 


OF    THE     PRAIRIE    BELLE, 


AND 


LITTLE    BREECHES. 


BY  JOHN   HAY. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  S.  EYTINGE,  JR. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.  OSGOOD   AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY  JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   <fe    CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


PUBLISHERS'    NOTE. 

THE  illustrations  which  accompany  this  edition  of  these 
popular  ballads  have  been  made  under  the  author's  eye, 
and  have  received  his  approval. 


JIM    BLUDSO, 


OF    THE    PRAIRIE    BELLE. 


TT  TALL,  no!    I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Becase  he  don't  live,  you  see  ; 
Leastways,  he  's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  have  n't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 
The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  ? 
7 


I  CAN'T  TELL  WHAR  HE  LIVES. 


Jim  Bhidso. 

He  were  n't  no  saint,  —  them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike,  — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike ; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, — 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied,  - 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had,  — 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell ; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He  'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 
9 


HE   WERE  N'T   NO   SAINT. 


Jim  Bludso. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  would  n't  be  passed, 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night  — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line  — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"  I  '11  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot  's  ashore." 


A   NIGGER   SQUAT   ON    II LR    SA1LTY- VALVE. 


Jim  Bludso. 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure  's  you  're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell,  — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint,  —  but  at  jedgment 

I  'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  would  n't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then, 
And  Christ  ain't  a  going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 
13 


i  NEVER  AIN'T  HAD  NO  SHOW. 


LITTLE    BREECHES 


I     DON'T  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show ; 
But  I  Ve  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o*  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels, 
Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 
'7 


I   HEARD   ONE   LITTLE   SQUALL. 


Little  Breeches. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  come  along, — 
No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Could  beat  him  for  pretty  and  strong, 
Peart  and  chipper  and  sassy, 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight, — 
And  I  'd  larnt  him  to  chaw  terbacker 

Jest  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket 

As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store ; 
I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses 

And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 
They  scared  at  something  and  started, — 

I  heard  one  little  squall, 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches  and  all. 
19 


I   JEST   FLOPPED   DOWN    ON    MY   MARROW-BONES. 


Little  Breeches. 

Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie ! 

I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer ; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches, 

And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near, 
At  last  we  struck  hosses  and  wagon, 

Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 
Upsot,  dead  beat,  —  but  of  little  Gabe 

No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me, 

Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid,  — 
I  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 

Crotch-deep  in  the  snow,  and  prayed. 

By  this,  the  torches  was  played  out, 

And  me  and  Tsrul  Parr 
Went  off  for  some  wood  to  a  sheepfold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  thar. 


AND  THAR   SOT   LITTLE   BREECHES   AND   CHIRPED. 


Little  Breeches. 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night. 
We  looked  in  and  seen  them  huddled  thar, 

So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white ; 
And  THAR  sot  Little  Breeches  and  chirped, 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
"I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker, 

And  that  's  what 's  the  matter  of  me." 

How  did  he  git  thar?     Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm. 
They  jest  scooped  down  and  toted  him 

To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 
And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child, 

And  bringing  him  to  his  own, 
Is  a  derned  sight  better  business 

Than  loafing  around  The  Throne. 
23 


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NEARLY  READY. 


PIKE  COUNTY  BALLADS, 

AND 

OTHER    IPIECES. 

BY  JOHN   HAY. 


In  this  volume  are  gathered,  under  the  headings  of  PIKE  COUNTY 
BALLADS,  WANDERLIEDER,  and  NEW  AND  OLD,  the  various  poems 
hitherto  printed  by  the  author  of  JIM  BLUDSO,  together  with  some 
others  which  are  entirely  new  to  the  public.  The  poems  contained  in 
the  first  division  are  probably  the  best  known,  but  those  in  the  other 
parts  of  the  volume  are  fully  equal  in  merit,  and  though  not  cast  in  so 
popular  a  mould,  yet  show  the  touch  of  the  same  master-hand. 


Price,  in  Cloth,  bevelled  boards,  $1.50. 


***  For  sale  by  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid*  on  receipt  of  price,   by  the  Pub 
lishers, 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


J 


--KC 


•t:-m 


